The Promised Lie

by Christopher Nuttall

  The army advanced in fits and starts, half the troops pausing to rest – and snatch what sleep they could under what little shelter they could find – while the other half advanced forward, weapons at the ready. Small farms and villages were discovered and searched for food and drink; the inhabitants, perhaps wisely, had fled to the hills the moment they’d seen the army approaching. The officers did what they could to ensure that the stolen food was evenly distributed – and that rations were handed out regularly – but it was hard to escape the sense of grim despondency that was falling over the army.

  She found it hard to believe, despite herself, that the Summer Isle was really worth invading, let alone holding. None of the farms they’d seen had struck her as particularly prosperous, not compared to the estates her family had held near the Golden City. But then, the local gentry would probably take everything the farmers grew, save for the bare minimum they needed to feed themselves and seed the fields for the next year. It was hard to believe that anyone could be less enlightened than Isabella’s father, yet she’d met too many aristocrats who regarded peasants as dumb animals. The Summer Isle didn’t even have any middling classes, outside the cities.

  Her horse squelched through the mud. Up ahead, a cart had overturned, scattering its contents into the gloom. A troop of soldiers were struggling to right it; she considered using her magic to help, but she knew they’d resent her assistance. Besides, she needed to conserve power as much as possible. It wouldn’t be long before there was a battle. She’d need to fight to survive, if nothing else ...

  Lord Robin rode up beside her. He looked like a drowned rat – he’d discarded his armour for a shirt and a set of leathers – but somehow he still managed to look good. Isabella resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the thought. She’d been told that leaders were meant to look good, even in the worst circumstances, but it had always struck her as nonsensical. A struggling man was more likely to resent someone above him than be struck dumb by admiration. She didn’t want to know what she looked like.

  As long as I don’t look like a woman, she thought.

  “Wonderful land,” Lord Robin said. He smiled at her, rain dripping off his helmet and splashing onto the horse. “Lots of potential here.”

  Isabella gave him a sharp look. “I think we’re being underpaid.”

  “Hardly,” Lord Robin said. “We put the boot on the neck of a few aristocrats – and kill those who refuse to submit – and then start making changes. A regular pattern of taxation with fixed rates will encourage the peasants to grow more ... ending serfdom itself will make the land more productive ...”

  Isabella listened as he chatted on, talking about what he’d do with his estate ... once he’d taken it from its previous owner, of course. She doubted it would be that easy to get his hands on the land. King Rufus the usurper was marked for death, of course, but he had a brother who might bend the knee to Prince Reginald. And if he did, would he be allowed to retain his lands in exchange for loyalty? Isabella could easily imagine most – perhaps all – of the local nobility switching sides, once the usurper was dead. Where would the land come from then?

  Reginald will have to balance the demands of his mercenaries – and his inner circle – with the rights of his new supporters, she thought. And that won’t be easy.

  She frowned as the gloom seemed to darken. It felt as though night was falling already, even though she knew it was early afternoon. Her sense of time wasn’t that bad. Big Richard and the others were out there somewhere, but she couldn’t see them. She supposed she should be thankful for small mercies, even though Big Richard wasn’t the sort of person she’d send on delicate missions. Unless someone wanted a disaster ...

  “There must be magic here,” Lord Robin said. “Have you thought about setting up a school?”

  Isabella gave him a surprised look. She’d never even considered it. And yet ... it wasn’t something she’d do, but other magicians might well be glad of the chance to set up their own schools. There had been quite a bit of muted resentment about the Peerless School’s monopoly on magical education even before the Golden City had fallen. Now ...

  That’s Alden’s problem, she thought.

  “I haven’t heard of any famous magicians who came from the Summer Isle,” she said, instead. “The gentry probably killed any commoners with hints of magic, instead of sending them to be trained. And if they had magic themselves, they kept it well hidden.”

  She shrugged. An aristocratic child with magic would probably have been taken away, once upon a time. Court Wizards disliked the thought of aristocrats with magic. And the aristocrats probably wouldn’t complain too. A magical child with aristocratic blood – known aristocratic blood – would screw up precedence beyond repair.

  “We’ll be at Allenstown soon,” Lord Robin said. “After you ...”

  He broke off, peering into the distance. One of the pickets was galloping towards them, hollering for attention. Isabella felt her blood run cold. The only reason for one of the pickets to return now, ahead of time, was enemy contact. She looked at Lord Robin, who looked back. His face was grim.

  “Well,” he said. “Shall we win a kingdom for the prince?”

  ***

  There wasn’t much to Alcidine, beyond a large stone bridge that had somehow survived decades of rainfall, flooding and round after round of civil unrest. A handful of stone houses, several more wooden hovels that looked as if a single gust of wind would be enough to flatten them ... and a lone temple, empty and abandoned. The town’s only real value lay as a crossing point, the only place where troops could cross the river without having to ford the waters or swim. It was no surprise to Havant that the population had vanished long before the army had arrived. The inhabitants had already heard of the invasion.

  And they know they’re on the route to Allenstown, Havant thought, as he studied the map on the table. His brother had taken one of the abandoned houses and turned it into a headquarters. They’ve already seen too many battles ...

  “We beat them, barely,” King Rufus said. His finger traced lines of the map as scout after scout reported to their king. “The invaders are already on the march, but we reached Alcidine first.”

  Havant nodded. They’d been lucky, for a certain value of luck. Holding Alcidine would keep the enemy from crossing the river and attacking Allenstown on both sides, but it also limited Reginald’s options down to one. The invaders had no choice. They had to attack the defences, such as they were. And Alcidine had almost no defences.

  “They’ll be on us as soon as the downpour stops,” Rufus added. “We dare not assume they’ll wait for morning.”

  “They may even risk fighting at night,” Havant agreed. Very few professional soldiers would risk fighting after dark, but Prince Reginald had to force the issue as quickly as possible. He couldn’t afford to give King Rufus time to dig in. Nor, for that matter, could he take the risk of Lord Francis sending reinforcements from Allenstown. “We must expect a savage assault.”

  He peered through the window. The skies were lightening, slightly. It wouldn’t be long before the rain stopped. And then ...

  King Rufus nodded. “This is what I want you to do,” he said, addressing his officers. “First, I want ...”

  Havant listened as his brother issued orders. Rufus was clearly relishing the challenge, even though he knew it was risky. A pitched battle was always risky, particularly as they didn’t have any idea how many men were advancing on Alcidine. The intelligence reports ranged from a few hundred men, which was absurdly tiny, to estimates in the high millions. Havant had even seen one report which confidently stated that the entire male population of Andalusia had invaded the Summer Isle. He hoped it was just a miscommunication, somewhere along the communications line. If someone really was stupid enough to think that ten million men were marching on Allenstown ...

  He shook his head in wry amusement. Even if Prince Reginald could raise, command and support an army of ten million, he’d never be abl
e to get it over the channel.

  “You have your orders,” King Rufus said, once he’d finished. Outside, the rainfall was slowly coming to an end. “Let’s move.”

  Havant nodded and headed for the door. He’d command the reserve, ready to take advantage of a gap in the enemy lines – or, more likely, to plug a gap in the king’s defences. It wasn’t a particularly glamorous post, but it was vital. And it had to go to someone the king trusted completely.

  Hark met him outside. He wore his cowl, but the red cloth looked dry, despite the droplets still falling from the sky. He’d claimed that his god protected him from the rain, the last time Havant had asked. It was hard not to envy the monk. Havant’s own clothes were drenched and there was no time to change. He hadn’t even had time to warm himself by a fire.

  “The enemy approaches,” Hark said. “But we are with you.”

  “Good,” Havant said, sarcastically. The monks had strange powers, but the coming battle would be decided by the sword. “Stay back. You don’t want to be harmed.”

  “Our Lord protects us,” Hark said. “And he will protect you too, if you open your heart and soul to him.”

  Havant frowned. “We will discuss it later,” he said. He’d expected Hark to try to convert him at some point – it would be a coup for the monks – but he didn’t have time. “Right now, we have a battle to win.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “That’s most of their army, Your Highness,” Gars said. He tapped the enemy position on the map. “They must have force-marched all the way from the Narrows.”

  Reginald nodded, crossly, as he paced the tent. The usurper had stolen a march on him – he admitted that to himself, even though it was something he could never share with anyone else – and he didn’t quite understand how it had happened. There was no way the usurper could have heard of the invasion in time to reverse course and force-march to Alcidine, not if he’d been guarding the Narrows. Perhaps, just perhaps, he’d already been on his way back to Allenstown ...

  He shook his head. In hindsight, he should have set out for Allenstown himself earlier, instead of taking a couple of days to regroup, but there was nothing to be gained by pointless woolgathering. No magic could change the past. He’d just have to cope with the consequences of his own mistake. And besides, it wasn’t entirely a disaster. He’d known he would have to smash the enemy army sooner rather than later.

  “We attack,” he said, turning to the table. There really was no other alternative. And there weren’t many options for tactical cunning, either. “Gars, deploy the first ranks of the army for a frontal assault. We want to hit them before they have a chance to build formidable defences.”

  Or night falls, he added, silently. He’d considered withdrawing long enough to ensure a good night’s rest for most of his men, then attacking in the morning, but that would give the enemy time to get organised. They’d send raiders to hit his camp in the darkness, he knew. It was what he would have done. We have to win this battle quickly.

  “Stuart, deploy the archers to provide cover,” he added. “And then ready the cavalry to go on the offensive and tear their lines open.”

  He studied the map for a long moment. They’d been in a race, it seemed ... thankfully, the enemy hadn’t had time to move their supplies across the Racal or it would have made matters a little more tricky. The enemy would be doing that now, at a guess, unless they’d somehow managed to summon troops from the south. He had to move fast.

  “Detach raiders to hit the rear of the enemy positions,” he added. “And then ...”

  His fingers traced out a line on the map. “I want a regiment to ford the river here, then strike at the southern side of the bridge. They cannot be allowed to retreat south.”

  He looked at Caen. “You’ll take command of that operation.”

  Caen bowed. “Your Highness.”

  “Very good,” Reginald said.

  He dismissed the council and took a moment to centre himself. The prospect of battle was thrilling, despite the risks. He was experienced enough to minimise them as much as possible. Hopefully, the enemy position would come apart when they realised their line of retreat had been cut. The usurper would have a hard core of loyalist troops, but the remainder would probably start thinking about their futures in a post-usurper world. And if it didn’t, they’d still be trapped in Alcidine and running out of supplies. He was pretty sure they couldn’t have brought most of their baggage train with them.

  It might be worth trying to hunt it down, he thought. A baggage train large enough to support an entire army would be easy to find, if he dispatched cavalrymen on a search and destroy mission. But that would have to wait. Right now, he had bigger problems. We have a usurper to kill. And a kingdom to win.

  He allowed himself a smile as he buckled on his sword, then headed for the flap. One way or another, it would all be over soon.

  ***

  “Are you ready?”

  Isabella nodded to Lord Robin as she peered into the lightening gloom. She’d gathered as much of her magic as she could, but Prince Reginald hadn’t given her a definite target. There wasn’t really a target to see, in any case. Alcidine – and the usurper’s army – was somewhere in the mist, but it was completely hidden. She couldn’t help wondering, as she reached out with her senses, if the mist was natural. It did odd things to her mind.

  “Yeah,” she said, when it became clear that he was waiting for a spoken answer. “I’m ready.”

  She looked down towards the massing troops. Prince Reginald was there, moving from squad to squad and speaking a few words of encouragement to each. It was one of the touches, Isabella had been told, that marked a good leader from a bad one, although it wasn’t one she’d ever taken seriously. Prince Reginald wouldn’t be joining the charge against the enemy positions, nor would he be in real danger if he was captured. The worst that would happen to him was being forced to surrender his claim to the Summer Isle, then being ransomed back to his father.

  Unless he gets unlucky, she thought. In his armour, Prince Reginald could easily pass for just another officer. He might be struck down in passing, his death unnoticed until after the fighting was over. And who knows what will happen then?

  It was a morbid thought, so she concentrated on it for a long moment. The army might come apart at the seams, if only because Prince Reginald had no clear successor. Some of the mercenaries might go to the usurper, others might cut loose and head home ... she had a vision of them trying to find a ship back to the mainland, only to discover they were trapped on the Summer Isle. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect. Commoners disliked soldiers, but they really detested mercenaries. They might find themselves torn to shreds and fed to the pigs if they seemed vulnerable.

  The remainder of the mists parted suddenly, revealing a small town by the riverside. Isabella leaned forward, eagerly. Alcidine was smaller than the maps had made it seem, barely a handful of buildings surrounding the northern end of the bridge. The enemy army was clearly visible, digging trenches and readying itself for war. It looked far bigger than the town it was defending.

  Prince Reginald walked up. Isabella hastily cast a protective ward. The enemy archers might just recognise the prince – or someone who seemed to be in command – and take a shot at him. She wouldn’t care to bet that they’d miss, either. Archers could be terrifyingly effective if they had a clear shot at a target. A bolt through the head would be lethal. And even a minor wound could turn nasty, killing the victim in screaming agony. She’d seen men die like that, begging for their mothers as their lives slipped away. It hadn’t been a pleasant sight.

  “They’re preparing to hold the town,” Prince Reginald said. “But we’re not going to give them time.”

  He raised his arm, then brought it down hard. The trumpets blared. Isabella heard the sound of archers lifting their crossbows, then launching arrows into the air. They might not hit anything, but a rain of arrows would force the enemy to take cover. In the meantime, who knew what c
ould happen?

  They might charge us, she thought. But they’d be better keeping their strength in reserve.

  ***

  “They’re firing arrows, Your Highness,” the scout said.

  King Rufus allowed himself a tight nod. It was a common tactic. And an entirely workable one. His men would be forced to duck, while the enemy troops advanced. It was a shame, really, they hadn’t had more time to prepare the battlefield. A few thousand caltrops would have made life much more interesting for the enemy soldiers. It helped that the enemy had no choice but to attack.

  “Order our archers to return fire,” he ordered. The enemy troops would have to come out into the open, if they wanted to attack. And they’d be badly hurt by the arrows. “Tell the outer lines to prepare to repel attack.”

  ***

  Big Richard hefted his axe, grunting in approval as he tested its weight. They’d been offered swords and suits of armour, but he’d declined both. An axe was a good weapon, in the right hands. It always terrified the poor bastards who had to face it. And he’d never trusted armour. An arrow – or a spell – could punch through even the strongest armour. He’d seen knights blasted off their horses by crossbow bolts.

  He glanced up towards Lord Robin, feeling a wave of sheer hatred for the woman standing next to him. She was a sorceress and sorceresses couldn’t be trusted ... he’d never liked magic-users, but the hatred he felt for her was all-consuming. She’d killed his brother, she’d lured him into a trap ... she’d intended to do worse to Richard, but he hadn’t given her the chance. And yet, it was only a matter of time. His feelings were so strong that, sometimes, they just didn’t seem real.

  Lord Robin will not forgive me if I kill her, he thought. He respected Lord Robin. The man was a strong leader, one who was firm and fair. And yet ...

  Lord Robin is enchanted, something whispered at the back of his mind. He cannot think for himself ...